When there’s a break in the firing I peer up to see them lugging a kicking and screaming Farrington into the white fucking Escalade that had been chasing us. Quickly, I send out two shots; the first hits one of the guys holding onto Farrington in the back of the knee, and he folds like a house of cards. My second shot blows out the vehicle’s front tire.
More shots force us to retreat. Briggs gives me a frustrated look as our backs lean against the disabled Camaro. When there’s a pause, I pull back up and watch Eduardo Miguel smile at me triumphantly from the passenger side of the vehicle.
I lift my gun and aim then hear a voice behind me: “Drop it.”
“Do it,” Briggs warns.
I hesitate; I don’t have a clean shot as the white Escalade pulls into the stream of traffic and up the onramp to I-10, headed God knows where with Rachel in the back seat.
Slowly, I turn around. Officer Douchebag has us covered. His motorcycle is laying on the side of the road.
“I’ve already called for backup. I’m guessing that gives me about five minutes to decide your fate,” he claims smugly. “I could turn you in and have you arrested for kidnapping and obstructing justice, and maybe we can even make it look like you killed Rachel Farrington. Or I could just shoot you now and say you drew your weapon on me.”
“It won’t make a difference what you decide, you’ll still be goddamn ugly and a lousy shot,” I taunt.
“You know, I think I’d really like to kick your ass,” he tells me. “You.” He indicates Briggs. “Come over here slowly.”
Briggs stands up with outstretched arms and empty hands. When he gets close enough, Douchebag smacks him in the side of the head with his pistol. Briggs drops like lead.
“Get ready to die,” he sneers.
“I don’t have time to die,” I answer. “You think you’re a badass, but you’re really just an ass—a shitass, dirty cop.”
“You know your man on the streetcar cried like a bitch when I shot him in the neck.” He smiles through smoke stained teeth, reminding me that I’m glad I quit. “Get up motherfucker, I’m going to sweep the ground with your ass.”
This is the best possible scenario I could have hoped for—the pride-puffed Guthrie wants to fist fight. He tosses his gun into the grass and puts himself into a fighting stance.
“I had a feeling we’d meet again, but I don’t have time for a movie fight.”
“A what?”
“You know, where the two strongest square off at the climactic scene. See, you’re not that guy—you’re the in-between dude that gets put down fast.”
He doesn’t like that and comes at me with all he’s got. I dodge his attack and give him a roundhouse kick to his spine. But like I said earlier, I don’t have time—all I can see is Rachel’s defenseless frame at Miguel’s mercy.
“I need your phone,” I tell him.
“Fuck you.” He spits.
“It’s easy. Don’t think, douchebag—you don’t have good judgment. Examine your present situation, and it’ll be obvious you haven’t made a right decision yet,” I explain as we square off on the side of the road. “You hurt innocent people who you’ve sworn to protect. You’re nothing but a stain. Now back off and give me your fucking phone.”
He throws a poorly aimed fist. I catch it and keep it in my hand.
“What’s wrong with your fingers?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He pants as I twist his arm at the wrist, and he falls to his knees.
“Sure there is, they’re broken.”
“They’re not broken.”
With three swift maneuvers, I hear the bones in four of his fingers snap before I bend his wrist back until it pops. To make sure he stays put, I put a firm boot against his neck and pull until his arm dislodges from its socket. He screams in pain.
“They’re broken now. You cry like a bitch, douchebag,” I let him know. “Have fun in prison, prick—just wait till you’re roommate says lights out.”
At that, I lay a kick to the side of his head and render him unconscious. My fingers lift the cell from his back pocket. While I’m looking through his calling history, I go over and carefully nudge Briggs.
“Are you dead, or are you going to wake up and pull your own weight around here?”
He groans and cusses at me.
“Good, you’re alive.”
And there it is—MASON DIRECT. I hit redial.
“Did you take care of the problem?” the heavily accented voice asks.
“I’m working on that.”
There is a pause as he figures out my voice isn’t the one he was expecting, and then, “Is Guthrie dead?”
“You mean Officer Douchebag? No, but once he wakes up, he’s going to wish he was.”
“Who are you?”
“The guy who’s going to make you wish you never fucked with Rachel Farrington.”
He laughs, low and sinister. “Really? I don’t see how that could be. I have the woman—I kept my word and set the child free—even though Ms. Farrington obviously didn’t keep her end of the deal.” Miguel tsk-tsks. “She will have to pay for that. I can’t allow my soldiers to think that I allow such actions.”
“You’re missing the big picture, Miguel, or Mason—whichever you’d prefer—either way you won’t harm a hair on her head.”
“And why would you think that?”
“Because I actually have something you care about.”